AT28R-TS

            This story by T Adamczyk should be read in conjunction with the ones by T. Swanson and  L. Ferraguto. The photo below was provided by Leo Ferraguto. Ted, the author of this story, is standing on the left. Maps of their flight to Java are included in the Swanson’s story, other photos in Leo’s . Maps of Java, Australia & New Guinea have been appended to this story for reader reference. Ted originally sent the part of his story that pertained to the 19th BG history endeavor. Aware it was extracted from a middle, I asked if he’d send that which pertained to his prior training and of what happened to him after going south to Australia. We are fortunate that he did because it tells of training, at a time when radio was a full time task, when there was a need to know Morse Code, the mastery of which was an achievement in itself. His continuation provides better insight relative to operations out of Australia in ‘42 and ‘43. Many of those who had once been in the 19th BG were blended into other operations. As Ted’s story reveals all available aircraft and trained personnel were assigned to meet immediate needs. This was a critical phase that has received little historical coverage. History reveals how critical the supply missions were in stopping the Japanese thrust over the mountains toward Port Morseby. The nearly decimated Aussie force was daily dependent on the supply drops described by Ted. They didn’t win until the Japanese force had been destroyed almost to a man. DL.

Fig 1   Standing: Theodore Adamczyk, radio operator; Leo Ferraguto, flight engineer; Earl Longacre, co-pilot

seated: Ted Swanson, pilot on Jan 1942 flight to Java

At 50th reunion in Seattle 1987.

            Letter to D Landau Nov 2, 1993:

            I want to thank you for sending me a copy of Ted Swanson’s account of our experiences with the 19th Bomb Group. It was most enjoyable and brought back a lot of memories. Leo Ferraguto, our flight engineer, would certainly enjoy a copy of it, so if you can mail him a copy ......

            I’m sending you a copy of my account of our trip as I saw it -- facts are pretty accurate since I had taken them out of my diary. Although the account in the diary was not compiled on a day-to-day basis, since I had lost all of my personal belongings when I got out of Java, I recorded the entries shortly thereafter down in Australia.

            On our third mission, the one where Swanson tells about bailing out over Arendis Island, I was put out of commission when my leg was fractured upon bailing out. So that was my last mission with the 19th. After recuperation in Australia I was assigned to the 22nd Troop Carrier Squadron and flew over 200 combat missions in New Guinea, returning to the U.S. in October of 1943.

Sincerely  T. S. Adamczyk

 

Army Air Corps

            On October 17, 1939, Lou Cwynar and I departed New Castle by train for Pittsburgh, to be sworn in to the military service. We took the required tests, both physical and mental, raised our right hands and swore to do whatever would be required of us. Lou Cwynar had not completed grade school, let alone high school, thus was sent to the Field Artillery at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. I was to go to the Army Air Corps at Langley field, Virginia. Lou and I went our separate ways; I did not see him again until many months afterwards.

            After staying overnight in a hotel in Pittsburgh, four of us new recruits from the Pittsburgh area boarded a train for Baltimore. On arrival there that evening we got aboard the Chesapeake Bay Ferry. Most of the passengers on that ferry-boat were young fellows about my age, from the entire state of Pennsylvania. Uncle Sam had heard the drums of war, and had decided to start building up our defenses.

            This was a new, exciting experience for us; we were all in the same boat, literally. Most of us did not sleep at all that night; I recall that some of us played poker - it must have been penny ante, because we couldn't have had too much money amongst us. As we rode down the Chesapeake Bay all that night, the lights on the far-off shore slowly drifted on by; we were embarking on a new chapter in our lives - we had all volunteered to serve our country and were on our way.

            Early the next morning we docked at Front Royal, Virginia. Here we got aboard a couple of waiting G.I. trucks - there were 50 or so of us - and after a bumpy ride of several miles, arrived at Langley Field. As we filed into the mess hall for our first real G.I. meal, we heard calls from the other troops already in uniform, "Sucker!"

            Langley Field was a beautiful base, one of our largest and oldest Air force bases, dating back to World War I. At that time, the Air Corps was still another branch of the Army. Langley was the home of the 2nd Bombardment Group, the outfit out of which General Billy Mitchell and his bombers proved that the airplane could sink a battleship. The 8th and 36th Pursuit Groups were also stationed here; we raw recruits were really thrilled to see their Curtiss P-36s flying formation over the base.

            Most of the administrative buildings and barracks were of the large, two-story, brick type, but we new recruits were assigned quarters in the new temporary two-story wooden buildings. There were fifty-or-so cots lined up on both sides of each floor of the barracks - no such thing as individual or two-man rooms as in today's modern Air Force. Lights were out at nine o'clock - woe to the late-comer who might come in later with an excessive amount of noise - he might catch someone's big G.I. shoe. Things could have been worse - later during the big build up there were bunk beds, even tents!

            So we went through the usual routine - got our shots, uniforms, hair cuts, and after four weeks of boot-camp, close-order drill, standing guard duty, K.P. duty, etc., we were assigned to our regular organizations. I was assigned to Hq & Hq Sqdn. (I never did find out why the two Hqs) of the 2nd Bomb Group. When I enlisted I had Intended to become an airplane mechanic; however, the personnel people told me that my I.Q. test scores were too high for that career field. I had a choice of the administrative or radio career fields - I chose radio, and was assigned to the radio section of the squadron.

            At the time of my entry in to the services, the base pay was $21 per month. Of course, there were a few deductions, such as laundry, the old sailors home, etc., so on pay day, which came but once a month, one would get away with 16-17 dollars. Then the first sergeant had a crap table set up in the day-room, or recreation room. More than once, after trying my luck at rolling the dice I was broke by the end of pay day. But that was no big problem - one could get a book of chits at the Post Exchange which he could use to buy whatever he required throughout the month, such as toothpaste, soap, cigarettes, which I didn't use at the time.

            Promotions were hard to come by in those early days. It took about three years to make two stripes, or corporal - we really respected anyone wearing corporal stripes. One was not allowed to marry until he made buck-sergeant, or three stripes, and then required the commanding officer's permission. This was not a bad idea - one could not afford a wife on less than a sergeant's pay. There were six specialist ratings - you started as a 6th-class specialist - after about a year I was promoted to 5th-class specialist, which gave me a $3 raise. Big deal! In the fall of 1940 the big buildup started in earnest - our country initiated the draft, the Selective Service System - the pay scale was hiked. somewhat then. I got another raise - I made PFC (Private First Class) 4Cl Specialist, which authorized me to wear one stripe. When I attained flight status, I drew flight pay, which was half of one's base pay. I don't remember the exact amount, but I must have been making over $50 a month by then. Not bad! When we entered the war in December of '41, the highest ranking enlisted member of our B-17 crew was a corporal, the bombardier - the rest of us were PFCs. But that's getting ahead of my story.

            A couple of months after being assigned to the squadron radio section, in January of 1940, I was sent to Scott Field, Belleville, Ill., to attend a radio operator and mechanic course, of six months duration. After four weeks of fundamentals, such as math and shop, our class was transferred to Chanute Field, Rantoul, Illinois. Here we underwent intensive training in radio theory, maintenance and operation of airborne radio equipment. Half of our school-day was spent on the heavy stuff, radio theory, etc.; in the afternoon we worked at typing and learning the CW (continuous wave) Morse code. As future radio operators each of us was expected to attain a code speed of 16 WPM. I had no problem with this - I eventually reached a speed of over 30 words-per-minute.

            During the last week of our course each of us would have an in-flight check-out, whereby we would go up in an airplane and perform the functions of an airborne radio operator. We were required to set up our liaison radio equipment on the proper frequency and make contact with the ground station. We also had to take some bearings on the plane' s radio compass and determine the position of our aircraft.

            Eight of us students went up on each flight for our checkout. The plane was a Douglas C-39, the military version of the DC-3. This was my first flight ever in an airplane. The weather looked beautiful - from the ground, that is! We flew at about 5000 feet, and on a hot summer day in early July those fleecy white clouds had a lot of bumps in them. When one had to concentrate on setting up and tuning the radio transmitter on the proper frequency - well, it was like trying to read a book in a speeding car on a bumpy country road. My stomach just couldn't take it; in fact, six of the eight students up-chucked our cookies on the flight. However, we did perform our required operations and passed our check-out.

            There were about fifty of us in our class, from every part of the USA. After being together for six months through thick and thin, strong relationships were established - we endured a lot together - slept, ate, marched together in January's below zero cold and July's hot weather, pulled week end KP, marched in review almost every Saturday morning. On graduation in mid-July, except for three students who dropped out along the way - one came down with encephalitis, another was accepted for flying school, while the last one just couldn't hack the course academically, the rest of us returned to our respective bases throughout the US. We had become qualified airborne radio operators and mechanics; thus, most of us were assigned to flight status, and when war broke out in December of 1941 a lot of my classmates were in the thick of things right at the outset. Some of them were already overseas in the Philippines and in Hawaii when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. I heard later that Jack Roberts was hit in the fore head by a Jap bullet on the first day of the war; he was waist gunner and radio operator on a B-17 that was trying to land at Hickham Field during the raid. When I arrived in Java in January '42 with our B-l7 crew, I ran into several of my classmates. Shorty Warrenfeltz, from Hagerstown, Md., was there. A short time after I saw him, our forces in Java were attempting to send a supply ship up to the Philippines with a load of some much needed supplies to our troops fighting the Japs on the Bataan Peninsula. When a radio operator was required, Warrenfeltz volunteered to go. The ship was intercepted by the Japanese navy - it was never heard from again. Quentin Blakely was my closest buddy through out radio school. He was as lean, long, and lanky as I was. He came from Utah - I always kidded him about being a sheepherder. On graduation from school he returned to his outfit, the 7th Bomb Group, March Field, Ca. I saw him a couple of times when his outfit flew into Langley Field. When the war broke out some B-17s from the 7th Bomb Group flew into Java, and were reassigned to the 19th Bomb Group. Blakely was with them. I lost track of him when we evacuated Java - it was not until 1982, forty years later, when I stopped at Port Moresby, New Guinea to visit Bruce Hoy, that I learned what had happened to Blakely. Bruce was an Australian civilian in charge of the War Museum at Goroka, formerly Ward Strip, out of which we operated in '42-'43. He had a comprehensive record of all the Air Corps organizations and flight crews that had fought against the Japanese in the southwest Pacific area during the early days of the war. His records, on microfilm, showed that Quentin Blakely was General Royce's radio operator on a bombing mission on Rabaul, New Britain. His B-17 did not return from that mission.

            To get back on track, on graduation from school, Tom "Skinner" Cunningham, who was from 0il City, and I hitch-hiked the 500 or so miles from Chanute Field to our homes. After being away from home for nine months this was my first leave; as always, it was nice to come home, but after two weeks I was ready to get back to my outfit at Langley Field.

            The 2nd Heavy Bombardment Group was one of the most prestigious outfits in the Army Air Corps, dating back to World War I. Out of it had come such names as Mitchell, Le May, Olds and Eaker; to it were first assigned the XB and YB-17s for flight test and evaluation. Besides Hq & Hq Sqdn. to which I was assigned, it consisted of the 20th, 49th, and 96th Squadrons.

            One of my first duties as a radio operator was to operate our ground station, 2YH; I started out as an assistant operator, and soon became quite proficient as an operator. We maintained CW (Morse Code) contact with all bomber aircraft assigned to the Group - it was a most interesting, fascinating job; I loved to work CW - After being away from it all these years I can still copy Morse code; it is something one never forgets.

            Being a Headquarters Squadron, initially we had only two B-18s assigned to us. The Douglas B-18 was a slow, lumbering, two-engine aircraft, the bomber version of the DC-3, with a maximum speed of about 160 MPH, and top altitude of 22,000 feet. It's armament consisted of one 30-caliber machine-gun in the nose, and one hand-operated top-turret in the rear of the aircraft. It was on this plane that I broke in on as a radio operator. I had quite a problem with my weak stomach; I had a tendency to get air-sick in turbulent weather; in fact, I was almost taken off flying status because of it. But I was determined to fly - more than once while flying on an air-to-air gunnery training mission, I would climb down from the rear turret, lose my cookies, and get right back into the turret and continue firing at the tow-target. I stuck with it; airsickness is a lot like sea-sickness - what an awful feeling! But on flying regularly I eventually got over it. I loved to fly; I remember one of my early flights in particular. I was down in the nose of our B-18-A in the bombardier's position; we were flying along the North Carolina coast at an altitude of only 500 feet, low enough to where I could see the farmers' chickens scatter as we flew over - I can still recall the feeling of exhilaration, of joy, of wonder at the fact that here I am, actually flying in an Army Air Corps bomber - it is a feeling hard to describe!

            As air crew members on flight status, once a week we would go out to the skeet range to shoot skeet, so as to improve our gunnery. We also had a 50-caliber machine-gun range near the base, where each of us were required to fire a 50-caliber machine gun mounted on a truck at a moving target. After firing that 50-caliber, I had difficulty hearing for a couple of days - I believe that, along with the occasional blasting CW signals in my ears while copying code, is the reason I am wearing hearing aids today. Some times we would go out on field exercises, whereby we would go out in the field a few miles from base, set up our field equipment and establish contact with home base.

            I liked the Army life, the discipline, the camaraderie; things were going along just fine. I came home on a two-week furlough in November of 1941. It was then I met a little country-girl who lived out in the sticks near Harlansburg. Her name was Dorothy Strawhecker.  [Ted originaly wrote this memoir for his childrens’ benifit. Dorothy is the girl he married at war’s end, and mother of his six children.]   Old buddy Mike Kwolek was working on a farm in the area at the time - he knew her sister Kay, so arranged for three of us couples to go out on a triple date; he, I and Walt Cwynar, who had a car, and Kay, Dorothy, and Dot McConaghy. Dorothy was only fifteen at the time - her father had died the year before; otherwise I am sure he would never have permitted his young daughter to go out with a soldier six years older than she was - and a Polock at that! But it was a lot of innocent fun; of course the paired couples sat together in the car, thus putting two couples in the back seat, with Dorothy sitting on my lap. It was then we shared our first kiss. Dorothy was quite mature for her age; I enjoyed her company. I dated her once more before returning to camp.

 

Our first month of World War II

December 7, 1941 to January 2, 1942

            Sunday, Decembcr 7, 1941, began quietly at Langley Field, Virginia; a typical Sunday morning. I walked to the base chapel to attend Mass, had a good dinner at the squadron mess-hall, went to see a movie at the base theater. On coming out of the movie, we heard the shocking news - Japan had attacked Pearl Harbor! All ears were glued to the radio, listening to the latest news reports - We were immediately placed on alert and all leaves were canceled. When President Roosevelt declared it to be a “day of Infamy", we were ready to go after those "yellow BASTARDS!” I had no doubt in my mind that we could go over there and blow the Japanese navy out of the water in no time at all - little did I dream that it would take almost four years.

            Of course no one knew quite what to expect from the Japs; they had sunk or damaged most of our battleship fleet at Pearl Harbor, and when a couple of Japanese submarines were seen off our west coast there were fears of an invasion. Thus, on December 8, the next morning after the Pearl Harbor raid, some of the 2nd Bomb Group B-17Cs and Ds, with full air and ground crows, were sent to the west coast to fly patrol and repel whatever may come.

            As a fully qualified radio operator on fight status, I was assigned to one of these B-17s, along with Private First Class Leo Ferraguto and George Sweeder, flight engineers, plus Norman Forte, radio operator; we were all members of Hq & Hq Sqdn. The bombardier, O’Neil Reynolds, was from one of the other squadrons of the group. As corporal he was the highest enlisted member of the crew - at about this time bombardiers were receiving commissions on graduation from school. Our first pilot was 1st Lt. Theodore B. Swanson, co-pilot was 2nd Lt. Earl Longacre, while the navigator was 2nd Lt. Gabriel Frumkin - these officers were from one of the other squadrons of the group, therefore, I had no previous experience with them. From this day, however, we became quite close.

            When we left Langley Field on the morning of December 8, that was the last time I saw the 2nd Bomb Group and Langley Field until our reunion 48 years later, in October of 1987. The weather that morning was not the greatest, and the air was very turbulent. It was a good thing that we had Norm Forte, our other radio operator along - he operated the radio equipment, while I lay flat on my back in the rear of the aircraft with a bad case of air-sickness. Our B-17C developed an in-flight engine problem; we were forced to land at an airbase near Nashville, Tennessee, where we stayed overnight. Having brought our ground-crew along, we were able to fix our problem and continued on to Lowry Field, Denver, Colo. We stayed here overnight, and the next day continued on to Geiger Field, Spokane, Washington.

            Our planes and crews flew submarine patrol along the Pacific coast out of this base - here we lost one of our B-17s, which crashed on take off, losing the entire crew, one of which was Cpl  Cunningham, a bombardier who came from New Castle. He was what was known as a twenty-percenter - if one was broke and needed some money in a hurry, Cunningham would loan it to him - at a rate of 4 for 5, or multiples thereof. In other words, on the next payday the borrower was expected to repay him $5 for every $4 he had borrowed - that's an interest rate of 20% - a month: I have often wondered how many people owed him money when he was killed in that crash.

            Our crew was not called on to fly any of the patrols at all while at Geiger Field. On the 24th of December, the day before Christmas, we said good-bye to our ground-crew buddies and boarded a train for Bakersfield, Cal., where we were to pick up a brand new B-17E. On Christmas day our train was temporarily held up on a pass in the beautiful, snow-covered Cascade Mountains, just long enough for one of the troops to jump out in the snow to cut down a small Christmas tree, which was set up aboard the train and decorated with empty whiskey bottles. And all around made the best of the situation and had a Merry Christmas!

            When we arrived in Bakersfield, the following day, we were introduced to our new aircraft, a brand new B-17-E, tail number 12469. Compared to the earlier versions of the B-17, A, B, C, and D models, it was a formidable, mean-looking beauty, camouflaged Nets war-paint, bristling with .50-caliber machine guns. The earlier models had a maximum of only four manually operated .50-caliber’s and one or two .30-caliber machine guns in the nose -- and no tail guns. The B-17-E had a power-operated upper forward turret firing twin-fifties, a power operated bottom turret, and, best of all, twin-fifties firing out of the tail - this is where quite a few Jap Zero's got the last surprise of their lives. The plane also had manually operated single fifties firing out of each waist position, for a total of eight .50-caliber, plus two .30-caliber’s firing out of the nose - a true flying fortress:

            Bakersfield, Cal., was the final depot where these new B-17-E's were made combat ready, manned by flight crews like us and flown to their combat zone, in this case the Far East. Rather than flying these planes west over the Pacific, considering the hazardous situation with the Japanese navy roaming all over the Far East, it was decided by our top command to fly these planes over the much longer eastern route, over what was then known as the Pan-American route. Pan-American Airways had pioneered this round-the-world route, down through Central and South America, across the Atlantic, across Africa, up to Cairo, Egypt, across the Near-East to India, and down into the Southwest Pacific to Australia.

            So, after a couple of test-flights, just before New Years we took off and flew east, non-stop, to the Air Corps depot at MacDill Field, Tampa, Florida. After a final flight-check; installation of ammunition for our armament, oxygen for high-altitude flight, and otherwise making our plane ready for combat, on the second of January, 1942, our eight-man crew -Pilot 1st Lt. Theodore B. Swanson, co-pilot Earl "Rabbit" Longacre, navigator Gabriel Frumkin, Bombardier Cpl. O'Neil Reynolds, flight engineers Pfc’s Leo Ferraguto and George Sweeder, and radio operators Norman Forte and T. S. Adamczyk - departed the U.S. for the war.

Our Flight to Java

            [01-02-42] As our B-17 rolled down the runway shortly before midnight, I reached into my coverall pocket and held my good-luck charm, a little silver bracelet commemorating the Virgin Mary - I did this on all of our take-offs - and as we headed east out over the Atlantic Ocean I couldn’t help wondering if we would ever see the good old U.S. again.

            Forte and I alternated at operating the radio - we would make hourly contacts along the way on C.W. (continuous wave Morse code) giving our position - if we knew it- requesting weather reports, etc. We had trouble contacting Pan-American Airways at Trinidad, but after a couple hours I finally raised them and gave them our routine check-in. We passed over Puerto Rico just after sunrise. Our navigator hit the Island of Trinidad on the nose, and we landed at the P.A.A. field just after midday, Florida time, after about 12 hours in the air.

            We were quartered at the American airbase barracks, where our Air Corp, had a small detachment. The following day our plane was due for a routine 50-hour inspection, so we spent most of the day servicing the plane. That evening we were able to pick up two quarts of native rum and a case of Coca Cola, and proceeded to dispose of them. (This was before the Andrews Sister brought out their "Drinking Rum and Coca-Cola” song).

            Forte and Sweeder quit early, but Ferraguto, Reynolds, and I finished all of the rum and coke before we quit. About three o’clock in the morning I was awakened by an awful crashing and banging. Reynolds, our bombardier, had gone outside to the toilet; when he tried to get back in he couldn’t open the door. So, cussing and swearing that someone had locked him out, he proceeded to tear the door down, which was made of bamboo. Just about that time I became violently sick on my stomach - there I lay, alternately laughing at Reynolds and puking. That barracks was certainly a mess -- it was a good thing we were taking off very early the following morning. I haven't drunk any rum since that time.

            [01-03-42] We took off at about 4:30 AM on the next leg of our trek, for Belem, Brazil. Needless to say, I was in no condition to operate the radio equipment; Forte was at the controls until I had recuperated somewhat. Every thing went all-right until we ran into some rain along the coast of Brazil. Gabe Frumkin, our navigator, didn't do such a good Job of navigating on this leg; we flew over Brazilian jungles and up the Amazon River for three hours before finding the field at Belem. And what a field! It was hardly big enough to fly a kite in, but Lt. Swanson set the plane down very nicely.

            Belem was a steamy hot little seaport situated on the mouth of the Amazon River, almost on the equator. Here we spent the night at one of the best hotels in town - which isn't saying too much. The following day we spent servicing our plane and cleaning our machine guns. Here facilities were very limited - fuel had to be hand-pumped into our gas tanks from 50- gallon drums.

            In the evening we sat out on the, sidewalk in front of a cafe drinking some type of exotic drink and enjoying the passing scenery - those Brazilian senoritas - wow! But we just looked.

            [01-05-42] The following morning our pilot gave our B-17 the gun, full throttle, and we hopped right out of that little Belem airfield. The weather was fine, and after a four-hour flight along the coast of Brazil we landed at a little field way out in the boonies near the seaport of Natal, situated on the easternmost coast. We serviced up with gas, pumped by hand out of 50-gallon drums, had a bite to eat, and at dusk took off and headed directly across the Atlantic Ocean for Africa.

            Everything went along fine all night - the weather was ideal and we had no difficulty contacting our ground-station checkpoints on our liaison radio. As we approached the African coast just after daybreak, we were challenged by a couple of ships. As we flew near them they flashed a particular code of the day on their blinker - we were required to answer them with the proper reply code on our Aldis lamp. Of course we gave them the right response, otherwise I might not be writing this today. Our next destination, Freetown, Sierra Leone, was just a short distance down the African coast from Dakar, which at that time belonged to Vichy, France, and was not considered to be friendly territory. So those anti-aircraft gunners on those ships had to be on the alert.

            As we approached on our down-leg to land at the RAF airfield at Freetown, I pulled a slight boo-boo. While flying, the radio operator would let out about 150 feet of copper wire with a three-pound weight on the end of it to enable us to make long-distance contact on our liaison radio. After that long 14-hour flight we were quite bushed - I forgot to retract the trailing-wire antenna and lost it when we landed. But I don't think the weight hit anything of consequence, and was easily replaced.

            [01-06-42] So here I was, naive country boy, in exotic Africa! As we made our way from the plane to the RAF barracks we could see some thatched--roof native huts on the outside of the base. We could see some native African women walking about, some with breasts hanging down to their waists. And as I looked out toward the distant jungle I could almost hear the roar of lions!

            We were rather worn out after flying all night, so we took it easy most of the day. We were billeted in the RAF NCO quarters - we Yanks were most welcome guests here and were treated regally by our RAF counterparts. Early the following morning we were awakened by a black-boy bringing us a cup of hot tea - in bed! The RAF had the right idea;

            [01-09-42] On the 9th of January, a week after our departure from the States, we took off from Freetown for Accra, Ghana. We flew along the Gold coast of West Africa, and arrived in Accra after a seven-hour flight without incident. Here we were quartered at the Pan-American base - not a bad place at all, good American food, ice-cold American beer, good sleeping quarters.

            [01-10-42] We departed the following morning for Kano, Nigeria, five-hour flight. The field here had the bare minimums - we serviced, again by hand-pumping gas out of 50-gallon drums, and took off at dusk for Khartoum. We had a close call on take-off when co-pilot "Rabbit" Longacre dumped flaps too soon. We flew all night and arrived at Khartoum, Sudan, .............?  Quoting the comments I had made in my diary, "Boy, What a place! Hotter than hell, poor quarters, awful chow:" I still recall our meal of goat meat and stewed tomatoes.

            As we flew along our route to the Far East we passed through malaria, cholera, and yellow fever country, and had to take precautions to avoid these tropical diseases. Lt. Longacre would dish out daily doses of those bitter anti-malaria quinine pills. In Khartoum we had to take a cholera shot, which didn't help my impression of Khartoum.

            [01-11-42] The following morning we and two other B-17s took off and flew in formation across the Sahara Desert up the Nile valley, and after a five hour flight arrived in Cairo, Egypt. Here we were quartered in the first class Heliopolis Hotel in downtown Cairo. The British at this point in time were still colonial rulers of Egypt, as well as a good portion of the rest of the world - any white man, especially we Yankees, could walk safely anywhere, within reasonable bounds, without danger from terrorists. That cholera shot we had taken in Khartoum got me down - I had some reaction, and felt too sick to go sight-seeing, but the other fellows went out to look the town over. Reynolds, our bombardier, had another escapade; as usual he had too much to drink, beat up a "camel-rider", as he called the locals, and ended up in jail. It required getting some irate colonel out of bed to spring him out of jail. He got a good calling down from Lt. Swanson the next morning.

            [01-14-42] After a two-day layover in Cairo, where we performed required maintenance on our B-l7, we took off for Habbaniya, Iraq. Shortly after take off we did a little sight-seeing; we circled the Great Pyramids and the Sphynx at low altitude. I had a 33mm Mercury II camera, and had opportunities for some most interesting pictures along our route. I have always regretted that I could not have brought those pictures back with me on my return to the States. My camera, pictures, and the rest of my personal belongings were left behind when I left Java - I got out with the clothes I was wearing, which wasn't too much.

            In these days of jet-age travel, as I look at a map of our route, the distances we traveled per flight in our B-l7 seems so short; however, the B-17s cruising speed was around 170 miles per hour, so as a rule our hops from one point to another generally required ten to twelve hours - we carried an extra bomb-bay tank to extend our range. Although these flights were tedious at times, we were not cramped for space - one could move around quite well in the large interior of the plane, and crew members could spell each other, stretch out and nap along the way. I spent quite a lot of air-time riding back in the tail-gun position. Although I was able to hear the rest of the crow on the headset of my interphone, I felt detached, as free as a bird, back in the tail end of that airplane - it was an exhilarating feeling! At times my imagination would run away with me. I could look out and see the fantastic world going, by; I would often sing at the top of my lungs - no one could hear me back there above the steady drone of those four engines. And as one looked at those four engines, rotating end on end, hour after hour, one marveled at man's ingenuity and skill in developing such a flying machine.

            Anyhow, after another ten-hour flight across Jordan into Iraq, we landed at the British-held airfield at Habbaniya, at the head of the Persian Gulf.

            [01-15-42] A few months prior, the British had to put down a pro-Axis revolt - the British and Iraqis had had quite a battle here on this airfield. Here we found one of our enroute B-17s washed out on the field - it had run into a filled-in shell hole while taxing.. It seemed that we found one or two of our B-17s and less-fortunate crews broken down at almost each of our stops along the way.

            After bedding down for the night at the on-base British RAF quarters, we took off the following morning for Karachi, now a part of Pakistan, but then still a part of India. After a 12-hour flight down the Persian Gulf across the Arabian Sea we landed at Karachi. Here we stayed at a first-class hotel in the town, much better than I expected to find in India.

            It was a common adage that the sun never set on the British Empire; in 1942 the British were rulers of a good percentage of the world. Which at that particular time certainly was a break for our side, as far as enabling us to fly eastward to the Far East to do battle with the Japanese.

            [01-16-42] The following morning we departed for Bangalore, in the southern portion of India, and after an 8-hour flight we landed at the RAF base located here. The British had a Welsh Infantry regiment stationed here - we were quartered in their barracks. A note taken from my diary stated "Bed-bugs are awful"!

            Our Air Corps had set up sort of a field depot here; since this was the last stop on our route before entering the combat zone, required maintenance and equipment checks were accomplished here. So we had a layover, a couple days here, giving us an opportunity to do a little sight-seeing. Forte, Sweeder, Ferraguto and I went into town and went to a dance one evening, sort of a USO affair - something else I didn't expect to find out here. We even met an American girl.

            Reynolds went off on his own and got into trouble again. He got into a fight with some of the bloody Limeys (his own expression) and got the worst of it. And looked it the following morning, sporting a couple of shiners. It was a good thing we were not with him - we would have been greatly out numbered.

            [01-19-42] Three days later, on the 19th of January, we took off at dusk and headed out over the Indian Ocean for the East Indian Island of Sumatra. We ran into some terrific storms out over the ocean - the turbulence was as rough as I had ever experienced, and every so often our plane was enshrouded by a halo of St. Elmo's fire, a phenomenon which can be quite scary. And I must admit I was quite scared - I'm sure I was not alone! I was working the liaison radio at this time - I made contact with the RAF station at Singapore - those faint dits and dahs in answer to my call were somewhat reassuring, for all the good they would do. I couldn't send a position report; Gabe Frumkin, our navigator could not determine our position because it was too cloudy to see the stars to shoot an astral bearing.

Fig 2    Airfields at Malang, Java, the site of the 19th BG’s delaying action before falling back to Australia.

            Fortunately, Sumatra is quite a large island; at daybreak we found ourselves flying over the island's jungles. We were almost out of fuel and looking for a place to set the plane down when we spotted the Dutch airfield at Palembang. Welcome sight! We fueled up, had a lunch of tropical fruit - papayas, pineapples and bananas - provided by the local Dutch citizenry, who were most delighted to see us Yankees coming to help defend their islands. We didn't want to dilly-dally here, since this field was within range of Japanese bombers - as a matter of fact, a high flying Japanese reconnaissance plane flew over while we were fueling up.

            [01-21-42] As we neared the island of Java, our final destination, we were on alert at our battle stations. Although my station was at the waist guns I was riding in the tail-gun position, daydreaming and enjoying the scenery, when I spotted a couple of pea-shooters (fighters) coming up on our tail. I made a hurried grab for the twin-fifty 50 caliber’s mounted in the tail; fortunately we spotted the orange triangle, insignia of the Royal Dutch Air Force, on the planes. They looked us over, flew alongside us for a while, then veered off, and shortly thereafter we landed at the airfield at Malang, Java, our base of operations at the moment. ref Fig 2

            On landing at the Royal Dutch Air Force field, we were met by other Air Corps B-17 crews - most of these were combat veterans of the 19th Bomb Group who had been flying against the Japanese since the start of hostilities in the Philippines. Others had flown over earlier on the same route we had; some were members of the 7th Bomb group. We were most eager to hear these crews' first-hand experiences - from what they told us the situation didn’t look too promising.

28th Sqd, 19th BG Java; Jan 25, 1942

Our First Mission

            We were assigned to the 28th Squadron of the 19th Bomb Group; we enlisted members of our crew were quartered in the Dutch barracks where our sleeping quarters consisted of straw mats lying on the floor.

            [01-25-42] Six days after our arrival at Malang, on the 25th of January, we were scheduled for our first bombing mission. Nine B-17s took off early in the morning - target, a Japanese convoy off the port of Belikpapen, Borneo. As we took off over the rice paddies and fishing weirs along the Javanese shore and headed for the blue, I couldn't help wonder if I'd see another sunrise. As we cruised along toward our target, slowly gaining altitude, those nine B-17s, bristling with machine-guns and loaded with four 600-pound bombs each, looked quite formidable - in terms of what our forces threw against the Germans in Europe they were quite puny.

            After a three-hour flight, as we approached Belikpapen at an altitude of 25,000 feet, we spotted the convoy, consisting of several transports, a cruiser and two destroyers. The Japs threw some ack-ack at us, but at our altitude the black bursts were well below us. We dropped our bombs; from this height our supposedly highly accurate secret Norden bombsight was not too effective - the Japanese cruiser and destroyers had too much time to maneuver before the bombs reached their target. A hit was scored on a Japanese destroyer, but that certainly was not going to stop the Japanese on their drive to the South.

            We saw no Japanese Zero fighters over the target, and after heading back for home and descending to a lower altitude where we could remove our oxygen masks and converse, there was a feeling of elation, of relaxation - this combat flying wasn't so bad! However, one of the B-17s in our formation developed engine trouble and lagged behind - it was attacked and shot up by a Zero. The plane returned to base safely; however, one of the waist gunners was hit in the leg above the knee by an explosive bullet and died due to loss of blood.

            Our flight, however, was not over yet - we had counted our chickens too soon: we ran into a tropical storm off the island of Madura, a short distance north of Java. The turbulence was so violent that we could not fly through it - our tool boxes and loose equipment were flying around like match-boxes as we attempted to get through the storm. Lt Crimmins, one of the veteran 19th pilots, was our first pilot on this, our first mission; Lt. Swanson flew co-pilot, while "Rabbit" Longacre sat this one out. We had insufficient fuel to get back to our base at Malang, so Lt. Crimmins picked a stretch of beach on Madura Island, bounced our wheels on it to see if it was hard enough, and made an approach to land on it. We really sweated that landing out: Ferraguto, Forte and Sweeder sat bunched together on the floor of the radio-room, ready for the worst. I sat in the radio operator's seat, from where I could see the beach as we approached it - I could call out our altitude to the others. Strangely, I was not overly concerned, as if B-17s landed on beaches every day. When we made our touchdown, that landing was velvet smooth, and the roll shorter than any we had ever made.

            So there we were, stranded on the beach, with no one but a bunch of Javanese natives around. After about an hour a Dutch three-engine Dornier flying boat spotted us, landed on the water off the beach and picked us up. Forte and Lt. Frumk1n stayed with the aircraft, while the rest of us were flown a short distance to the seaplane base at Soerabaya, Java. Here we got some very welcome chow and a good nights sleep in decent bunks.

            We learned that three other planes of our nine-plane mission had to make belly landings in rice paddies when they too were unable to get through that tropical storm. So we hadn't done too badly - at least we had landed on our wheels. However, those wheels were half buried in the soft sandy beach, where they had sunk down to their axles after the plane had stopped it’s forward roll.

            Lt. Crimmins was not about to leave this valuable aircraft which we had flown half-way around the world stranded here on this forlorn beach; he was what I would consider a genuine hero. Immediately following the high altitude bombardment of Clark Field in the Philippines on the first day of the war by 75 Japanese bombers, while the field and hangar line were under machine gun strafing by low-flying enemy aircraft, he had rushed into the burning hangar which contained his assigned airplane and started the engine to taxi it to a place of safety. However, he was wounded in the head and arms, and his plane was destroyed. On this mission he flew with our crew he still wore a bandage on his head wound, which had not yet completely healed.

            After looking the situation over, he decided that if we could Jack our plane up enough to get the wheel s out of the sand and build a temporary runway, we could get the plane off. So he contacted the Dutch authorities at the Dutch naval base at Soerabaja; they agreed to send a ship with jacks and heavy wooden planks out to the plane. After all, this bomber had come halfway around the world to help them fight off the Japanese - that was the least they could do for us.

            So, the morning after the Dutch seaplane had taken us to the base at Soerabaja, we got aboard a torpedo-boat which took us back out to our beach B-17. That was quite a ride on that speedy torpedo boat, although I was glad when it ended - I was getting somewhat seasick.

            That night we all slept in the plane. During the night, the Dutch lighter carrying planks and large house-jacks arrived; early the next morning we went to work. We spent the rest of the day bringing the planks from the boat to the shore, quite a difficult task, since the lighter had to stay at least a hundred yards out from the shore because of the shallow water, and the planks were quite heavy, about four by twelve inches wide and quite long. Forte and Sweeder had a close call in the afternoon; they were on their way back to the shore in a small boat when one of those quick tropical storms came up and caught them on the water. They finally made shore about a half mile down the beach.

            Using the house Jacks, we were able to jack the plane up enough to get the wheels out of the sand, placing some heavy planks under the wheels. Then we kept laying planks side by side, horizontally, away from the plane down the beach, thus making a short, runway. We had about a hundred natives working for us, and had quite a great time bossing them around.

            That evening the captain of the Dutch lighter invited us to stay aboard his ship overnight. We gladly accepted his invitation - we got a good meal aboard, had some good Dutch beer, and good bunks to sleep in!

            The following morning we finished the plank runway out to a distance of approximately 150 feet. We stripped the plane of everything we could to lighten it, such as ammunition, tool boxes, even our waist-guns. We pumped enough fuel into the gas-tanks to get the plane back to Malang, and were ready for the big moment.

            [01-28-42] Only the pilot and co-pilot were aboard the plane - the rest of us stood by on the beach, to make the plane as light as possible - and for safeties sake too. We all had our hearts in our mouths as Lt Crimmins gave her the gun and the plane started down that short runway, the propwash sending planks flying backward. Once the plane got rolling pretty well, it no longer required the planks, and was airborne in as short a run as I've ever seen. As the plane lifted off amid the cheering spectators and made a bee line for Malang the rest of us went back aboard the Dutch lighter and headed for the naval base. The captain of the ship gave us a bottle of Bols gin, which helped us to celebrate the successful, but somewhat delayed, return of B-17E #12469 to base.

            Incidentally, Lt. Crimmins later was awarded the DFC for this accomplishment.

Our Second Mission-

[01-29-42] The following morning we caught a ride aboard one of our Army trucks to our base at Malang, a distance of about seventy miles. Two days later we and our B-17 were combat-ready; we took off in a nine-plane formation on another mission against the Japanese steaming down through the Makasser Straits. The weather was atrocious enroute - we could not get through to reach our target and returned to base without dropping our bombs.

            That evening we enlisted crew members caught a ride into the city of Malang, a few short miles from the base. Java, along with most of the East Indies, was administered by the Dutch colonialists. The city of Malang was quite large, with a population of over 100,000 people, good restaurants, stores, most of the amenities of what was considered to be a modern city at that time. The native Javanese, members of the Melanesian race, were of small stature, very few over five foot tall. We were approached quite often on the street by young women, so short that they looked like little children, but old enough to ask the inevitable question, "Mac-Mac?", which in Javanese was the sales-pitch for the oldest profession in the world. They had no takers, as far as we were concerned. We found a restaurant where we had a good steak dinner, then proceeded to get somewhat inebriated on that good Dutch beer. Eventually, when we started looking for a ride back to the base, Leo Ferraguto climbed into the driver's seat of one of our GI trucks which was parked in the area. He was going to drive it back to the base; fortunately, he was unable to start it - the penalty for stealing GI trucks could have been quite severe. We were able to hitch a ride back to base, that is, all but Reynolds, our bombardier. He came in sometime later during the night - he had got hold of a goose somewhere and brought it back to the barracks. He swore it was a duck, and took it to bed with him, but got rid of it a hurry when it messed in his bed.

Our Third Mission-

            [02-03-42] A couple of days later we took off on our third mission against the Japs. We were part of a six-plane formation, flying in the tail-end of two Vees. George Sweeder was manning the twin-fifty, manually operated tail-guns; Leo Ferraguto was in the power-operated top turret up front, while Reynolds and Frumkim each had a single 30-caliber machine gun firing forward. Norm Forte manned our Bendix power-operated bottom turret - this was an abomination, since one had to sight the target in a remote sight in a mirror while lying on one's stomach - this type of turret was soon replaced by a locally-controlled ball-turret on later models. I manned the waist guns - both of them. These were single flexible 50-caliber’s, one on each side of the aircraft aft of the radio-room. The fallacy of this system was that I could be manning only one gun at a time - the other side of the aircraft was unmanned. This too was soon corrected - shortly after this mission another gunner was added to the crew so that both guns were being manned.

            Anyhow, on this mission the weather was beautiful. As we approached our target at an altitude of 25,000 feet, we could see several freighters, including a large troop transport, escorted by a couple of warships, in the harbor of Belikpapen, Borneo. Again there was some ineffective anti-air craft fire bursting below us. As our bomb-bay doors opened, in my position in the radio room I could look straight down through the open bomb-bay. What a sight! As we dropped our four 600-pounders I could follow their trajectory most of their way down. As they were released at first they seemed to drop behind the plane. Then they seemingly moved forward in an arc with the speed of the aircraft. I lost sight of them as they neared their target, then I observed the splashes in the ocean where most of our formation’s bombs fell - and I saw two hits on the transport: We did not hang around to see if it had sunk - whether it was our bombs or one of the other planes we'll never know.

            As we turned homeward we spotted a single Jap Zero flying along with our formation several hundred yards off to our right. Lt. Longacre, our co-pilot, was coaching us gunners on the interphone to make sure that we were ready for the attack when it came, cautioning us to fire in short bursts. Suddenly the Zero turned directly for our formation, and, as luck would have it, picked our plane for its target, probably because we were tail-end Charlies. As I pressed the trigger  grips on my right-side gun, it fired one round, then jammed. That was a helpless feeling - here comes this Jap plane spitting bullets at us - I couldn't fire back and no place to hide! There were at least two gunners firing out of each of six B-17s at that single Zero, yet on that first pass, as far as we knew, no one had hit him. Prior to our approaching the target area I had been kneeling on my heavy flying jacket - it was not needed in the tropical climate - as I watched at the open waist-gun window. As that Zero made that first pass at us, I thought I saw some smoke in our aircraft - when I picked up my flying jacket afterward I found it perforated with holes - it had been hit by an explosive bullet!

            After that first pass, the Zero flew along on the other side of our formation, then turned toward us and came at us again. This time I was on my other gun, firing short bursts, as per instructions from Rabbit Longacre on the interphone. I would love to be able to say that we blew that Jap out of the sky; however, to be completely truthful, I must say that that Japanese pilot bore a charmed life - we may have hit his aircraft; if so, he seemed to be in control as he spiraled downward and disappeared.

            Shortly thereafter our formation descended to a lower altitude to where we could take off our oxygen masks; we were beginning to relax back in the rear of our aircraft; I had a feeling of exultation - we had been in mortal combat, and had survived! I had no inkling of any problem, when Forte pointed out to our number one engine. The prop was feathered, and we could see some flames near the oil tank. Lt. Longacre came back through the bomb-bay and told us to get ready to bail out. We were over a small island off the coast of Borneo, with a long overwater flight ahead of us, and the possibility, or probability, of the oil fire spreading into the gasoline; our pilot thought we had better get out while we could.

            So I helped Lt. Longacre pull the emergency door release on the rear exit of our B-17 - we were at an altitude of about 5000 feet. When the door flew off, Lt Longacre told me to bail out. I looked at him, as if to ask, do I have to? " He told, " Go ahead." And out I went!

            As I went out the exit I immediately grabbed hold of the rip cord handle of my backpack parachute - I wanted to be sure I could find it. I had also loosened my fur-lined flying boots, anticipating the possibility of landing in the ocean. One was supposed to count up to some predetermined figure on bailing out of an aircraft - as far as I can figure I must have pulled that rip-cord almost immediately as I left the aircraft, before my body had time to decelerate. At any rate, when the chute opened I felt a terrific jolt, and a bad pain in my left knee. When I reached down to feel my left knee I could see that it was dislocated. As I descended I pushed it back into place.

            Actually, I believe I would have enjoyed the ride down had not my leg hurt so. The sudden quiet after that noisy aircraft was quite a contrast. The landscape below looked beautiful - blue water, sandy beach, and green coral - and it seemed as if I was floating down like a feather. That is, until I hit the ground! I couldn't have picked a much better spot - I landed in about six inches of water, right off the sandy beach on the east side of the island. Even though the water and sand were soft, when I hit I felt quite a jolt - I knew right away that I was out of commission. As I lay there in the shallow water, catching my breath, a song went around in my mind, "I'm a Rambling Wreck from Georgia Tech." Tradition had it that one must hold on to his rip-cord after bailing out - I still held mine in my hand as I lay there. And I remember that I cut off the small pilot chute off the main chute with the six-inch hunting knife which we crew members carried; I wanted it for a souvenir. Amazing what goes on in peoples minds at such critical times!

            After lying there a few minutes while regaining my composure, I began to wonder what had happened to the rest of the crew. Unknown to me, after I went out the door, Norm Forte was supposed to follow me - when he stood in the door at the exit he froze - the others behind him had to push him out. Ferraguto and Sweeder followed him out. As a result of Force's hesitation there was an interval between when I went out and when the rest of the crew bailed out; the others landed on the other side of the approximately one-half mile wide island. Reynolds, the bombardier, started out the forward bottom exit, changed his mind and tried to climb back up into the plane but Frumkin stepped on his fingers, so he had to let go. The other three members stayed with the plane and belly-landed it in the shallow water about, a mile off the eastern side of the island. They were able to extinguish the fire in the number one oil tank.

            So there I was, all alone on this side of the island, lying in about six inches of water, not knowing if there were any Japanese on the island. Any movement of my leg hurt excruciatingly. Eventually, using my elbows, I was able to drag myself out of the water onto the beach and cropped my head against a coconut tree. We crew-members carried an Army Colt 45 semi automatic strapped to our belts. I pulled mine out of its’ holster and held it in my hand - if there were any Japs here I suppose I would have used it as long as I could. After a while I decided to fire three rounds into the air so that the others would know where to find me.

            A short time later, here they came around the Island, along with some Melanesian natives in a boat of some sort. They were certainly a welcome sight! They made me as comfortable as possible lying there on the beach. Actually, the rest of the crew seemed to be enjoying the experience, and I could have too had I been a little more mobile. We were not hurting for food or drink - that was still available in our plane, which sat half-sub merged about a mile out in the water. Lt. Swanson got the 12-gauge shot gun which we carried in the plane and shot some type of guinea fowl on the island, which he cooked over a fire on the beach.

            That night the mosquitoes almost ate me up - we had no mosquito nets to sleep under.

            [02-04-42] No one seemed overly concerned about how we were going to get back to our base - I suppose expecting the worst in combat, we just accepted things as they were at the particular moment. The other planes of our formation had seen us go down on the Island - we were sure they would have us picked up somehow. Sure enough, about noon the following day a Navy PBY flying boat circled the Island and landed a short, distance out in the lagoon near where our B-17 lay in the water. The PBY could not come in too close because of the shallow water; however, our crew members got me into a rubber life-raft and we made it out to the PBY, where I was gently lifted aboard by some good strong U.S. Navy hands.

Untimely End for our proud bird

            As we lifted off the water we passed over B-17E 12469. It's too bad we never gave her some exotic name. She was lying there so ignominiously, half in and half out of the water - we had flown half-way around the world in her, and she was a part of us.

            On several occasions recently, retired Col. Swanson has expressed a desire to get as many of the crew-members together as possible, getting a sailboat and sailing over to the South Seas to see if our B-17 was still lying there on that reef. I am sure that either the natives cut the plane up to make pots and pans out of it’s aluminum, or the Japanese salvaged the p lane when they occupied the islands. But, the Colonel's expressed desires, only a dream, are indicative of how close a plane and it’s crew can become. Today, four of our eight-man crew are still in contact with each other. We lost contact with Frumkin, Reynolds and Forte; George Sweeder died of a heart attack a couple of years ago, but forty-five years later, Ted Swanson, Earl Longacre, Leo Ferraguto, I and our lovely wives had a delightful time together in July of 1986, at the Boeing Aircraft Corporation's 50th anniversary of the B-17 aircraft in Seattle, Washington. We still hear from each other at least at Christmas time - although we may be on the glide slope for landing after life's flight, if we had it to do over again we would have it no other way - we would fly together as crew-members on B-17-E 12469.

Escape from Java

            When our rescue PBY landed at the Dutch naval base at Soerabaya, that was the last time I saw our crew as a whole. They bid me goodbye, and I was taken to the small Dutch hospital at the naval base, while they returned to Malang. They continued to fly together as a crew until forced to evacuate to Australia a few weeks later. Forte, Ferraguto and Sweeder stayed together as crew-members with the 19th Bomb Group, flying against the Japanese out of Australia and New Guinea until the following November, when they returned to the States. I ran into the three of them on two occasions, once while standing in the chow-line at Seven-Mile strip, Port Moresby, New Guinea; again, while standing in a chow-line at Mareeba, Queensland, Australia, where the 19th Bomb Group was operating out of at the time. The other crew members went their own separate ways.

            [02-10-42] When the Dutch doctor at the hospital looked me over he assumed that my knee was only dislocated - as far as I knew they had no X-ray facilities there - a few days in bed would take care of it. It was not until I arrived at a field hospital in Australia when an X-ray revealed that the spine of the tibia bone in my leg was fractured.

            So I lay there in the hospital cot, making the best of the situation. In the bed next to me was a Dutch marine, Jan Hage. He was about my age, and we became good friends. We had a great time teaching each other our respective languages - he tried to teach me a few words in Dutch or Malay, while I reciprocated in English.

            Our favorite nurse was July - she was blond, well built, and, as far as I was concerned. an angel! She could not speak English, but between her, Jan and me, we got along just fine. I'll never forget the time I called her "mien liefling" - Dutch for "my darling". Was she surprised, and shocked! Jan almost ruptured a blood vessel laughing - but she liked it. Later, she asked me to go out- to dinner with her; however, the tides of war did not permit it. I have often wondered what Jan and July had to go through when the Japs overran the Island of Java.

            A couple days after my arrival at the hospital we had a bomb alert - a large formation of Jap Betty bombers were heading for Soerabaja. July, the nurse, was scurrying around, trying to get patients under mattresses for protection. I could not get out of bed yet, so I had no choice but to lie there. When we could hear the irregular throb of the bomber’s engines, and the Dutch anti-aircraft guns begin to fire at them, we knew they were close. July and the others were able to get under the hospital cots - strangely, I was not afraid - I knew that I wasn't going to get hit. The Japs dropped their bombs on the base - none hit the hospital but a Javanese just outside the hospital door was hit in the throat by a piece of shrapnel. I kept a piece of shrapnel for a souvenir; however, it, along with my good-luck bracelet, was stolen from me in the hospital by one of the Javanese cleaning personnel.

            After a few days my leg felt pretty good - the knee joint was stiff, but I could hobble around on it pretty well. I was getting a little concerned - the Japanese were invading the Island; although they did not bomb the hospital again, on several occasions I was able to see formations of their bombers flying overhead. In the beginning, the small Dutch Air Force and a few of our P-40s opposed them, but were soon overwhelmed. Except for one of our P-40 pilots who was shot down and badly burned on the first Jap raid on the hospital - he died during the night - I believe I was the only American in the hospital. No one of our military forces had contacted me. So I decided to take things into my own hands.

            First of all, I had no shoes! All I had as far as personal belongings was my light flying coveralls - I had been jerked out of my flying boots when my parachute opened. I had no headgear. I did have a few Dutch guilders, so one morning I got a taxicab to the down town area and bought a pair of low-cut civilian shoes. They were the largest I could find, but far too small for comfort; however, they had to do in a pinch. I also bought a pith sun-helmet.

            [02-25-52] The next day, on my own initiative, I left the hospital, made my way to the down-town area; here I found one of our GI trucks which was headed for our air base at Malang. When I got back to the base, I learned that all of the air crews had evacuated the base. The only Americans left were the ground crews, and they were leaving that evening by train. I could not find any of my personal belongings, my clothes, camera, etc - all I had was what I was wearing at the time - my flight coveralls, pith helmet, and tight low-cut civilian shoes. However, had I left the hospital a day later, I would have been left behind - I don't think I would be writing this account today.

            That evening all the American personnel left at the Malang air base boarded a train at the local train station. We would travel by night, since the Japanese air force was active during the daytime, strafing targets at low altitude. We traveled on the train all night - we were headed for the port of Tjilatjap, on the southern coast of Java, from where we were to be evacuated by ship. After about a 200-mile ride on the antiquated train the following afternoon we arrived at the port.

            The port was a hub-bub of activity - the situation with the Japanese was rapidly deteriorating. Our meager naval forces, along with a few elements of the Royal Dutch Navy, were battling it out with the superior Japanese naval forces in the Java Sea. The Japanese had already captured Singapore on the Malay peninsula to the north; a few hundred English and Australian soldiers had been able to make their escape to Java, and were now here at the port boarding whatever they could to escape to Australia.

            We were in the same boat, literally. That afternoon we Americans, along with a rag-tag bunch of English and Australian troops, boarded a Dutch freighter, the Abbekerk.

            Late that afternoon, at high tide, we sailed out of the port. There were quite a number of ships of all sizes leaving the port at the time. They were going to proceed together by convoy to Australia. However, the captain of our ship, the Abbekerk, was a hard-headed Dutchman; he decided to go it alone. His ship had a top speed of 22 knots, while the convoy would have to travel at a much slower speed. Again, it seems the Good Lord was looking out for us - that convoy was intercepted by units of the Japanese navy, and all of those ships were sunk.

            Three to four hours after we had left the port, just before sunset, we were approached by a single low-flying plane. As it flew close by at a low altitude, presumably to look us over, we could plainly see the red circle of the rising sun of Japan -- the plane was a Japanese reconnaissance plane. Except for a single 4-incher mounted near the bridge of the ship, the Abbekerk was unarmed. Some of our old-time sergeants had obtained a single aircraft 50-caliber machine gun and mounted it on the top-deck - it had no grips to hold and aim it with, so they held and aimed it with a couple pairs of pliers.

            The Japanese plane circled back toward us and made a low-level attack on our ship. It dropped two bombs which missed the ship. The ships four incher was firing away at the plane, while a couple of our troops stood out on the open deck manning the 50-caliber machine gun. As the plane made another pass I was out on the top deck, trying to hide behind whatever I could find - this time I'll have to admit I was scared!

            After that second pass the Jap plane headed away from us and disappeared. I don't know whether our anti-aircraft fire had discouraged him or whatever; I was sure he was going to bring back the whole Japanese navy to sink us. In fact, I was ready to accept it - I had made my peace with the Lord. I had found an empty wine bottle which I filled with water - I tied it to my belt with a rope - I figured I would need it in the ocean.

            After dark that evening we had a big tropical moon - under different circumstances I would have called it beautiful - however, at the time a few storm clouds certainly would have helped -- the ocean was as bright as day, and we were so visible! But the Japanese did not return; no doubt they were too busy with the convoy we had left behind.

            As we headed southward at 22 knots toward Australia, the following day we began to feel a little more secure. The Abbekerk was not a passenger or troop ship - it was a cargo freighter, and had no accommodations for it’s human cargo. Most of the troops aboard slept out on the open top-deck. Field kitchens had been set up on deck, where we were fed field rations twice a day. I didn't feel much like eating that first day, with a slight case of mal de mer. I had to make one dash for the ships rail, and quickly learned that one must go to the leeward side of the ship to toss ones cookies overboard.

            Those shoes I had bought in Soerabaja were bothering my feet, so I had removed them and had laid them down on the deck. One of the English or Aussie troops came along and swiped them - I hope they fit him better than they had fit me. I later found a pair of flying boots down in the hold of the ship, which I appropriated and wore from then on.

Australia

            03-__-42: Four days after leaving the port of Tjilatjap, the Abbekerk reached the port of Freemantle, on the southwestern coast of Australia. On disembarking late that evening we Americans boarded a troop train and were transported to an Australian army camp about 70 miles north of Perth (ref Fig 3) near the little town of Northam. I can still recall arriving at the camp at about three in the morning and having a late dinner, or early breakfast, whichever way one looks at it, in the camp mess-hall. We had scrambled eggs and mutton sausage; in fact, during my six week or so stay at Northam I believe we had mutton in one form or another at least twice a days- that is why I still abhor it today.

            The following day after our arrival at the Aussie camp we were called into formation. I was still wearing the flying boots I had picked up on the Abbekerk; although I could hobble on it, my knee was still stiff, so that when the formation was given the order to march, I Could not keep up with it. So instead of boarding the train and heading for Melbourne with the rest of the troops I was sent to the Royal Australian Field Hospital on the outskirts of Northam. Here an X-ray revealed that the spine of the tibia bone in my knee had been fractured. Since my knee-joint had healed in a slightly bent position, the knee had to be straightened under an anesthesia of sodium pentothol, and my leg was placed in a cast from ankle to hip.

Fig 3   Most places in the story are referenced to major population centers shown here

            My approximate six-week stay at the Aussie field hospital was quite pleasant indeed. Northam was a quiet little town in the rolling, sheep-grazing hills of Western Australia. April and May were the fall months of the year down under, quite pleasant - the country-side was much like that around home in western Pennsylvania. Three other Yanks and I were the only Americans at the hospital - we were quite a novelty, and we found the Aussies to be the nicest, friendliest of people - we got along famously once we got on to their accent.

            One of the first of these fine people was a pretty young miss by the name of Jean Cole. Her father, an officer in the Aussie militia, was a patient in the hospital; when she and her Mom came in to visit her Dad, Jean would chat with me while her Mom talked to her dad. We became quite friendly; when her dad left the hospital the family returned to their home in the gold-mining town of Kalgoorlie, several hundred miles to the east. We corresponded two or three times, and talked of somehow seeing each other but, as those things go, that was as far as it went. Jean was a sweet young lady - I wonder ..........

            Sister O'Donnell was another of those lovely people. The title "Sister” had no religious connotation; rather, that was a title of respect given to their R.N.s by the Aussies, as well as most European countries. She was the nurse in charge of our ward most of my stay there. She was a little blue-eyed blonde, Irish, with a good Irish brogue. Of course the Aussie R.N.s were officers, as were our military nurses, and their word was law. She would stand for no monkey business, but she did have a slight case on one of our fellow Yankee patients there, M/Sgt Francis Donohue - she became a little irritated with him on one occasion because of his reluctance to take advantage of her humanness. I thought she was wonderful, in a big sister kind of way, and she treated me like a kid brother. She knew I had no money when I left the hospital; she loaned me ten pounds Australian, which was about $45 American in those days. I returned it in a letter later on, but never received acknowledgment of receipt from her. I wonder ..........

            The Chidlows were an Aussie family who lived in Northam. They became acquainted with me on visiting the hospital, and invited me to stay at their home for dinner over the weekend. Mr. Chidlow was a WWI veteran who had lost a leg in the Gallipolis battle against the Turks - I thought he was a fine gentleman. Mrs. Chidlow was a matronly woman - she played the piano very well, which I enjoyed listening to. Her eldest daughter, Audrey, was near my age - she was away at boarding school in Perth, but she did return home one weekend while I was there. The most I can say for her was that she was not attractive. Her little sister, Noreen, took a great liking to me - she was only six.

            The Chidlows were a good Catholic family; when I stayed at their home on weekends I was, supposedly, a good Catholic boy, expected to go to Mass and receive the Sacraments. However, I'm ashamed to admit, this way of spending my week-end was a little too tame for this young flyboy. I had been able to obtain most of an Aussie army uniform in the hospital quarter master - trousers, heavy brogans, shirt and sweater - not complete, but enough so that I could go out of the hospital to downtown Northam. A couple of my fellow patients, both Aussies, and I were walking down the street in downtown Northam after quaffing a couple of beers at the cub when we were stopped by a couple of Aussie Army M.P.s. They wanted to know why I was out of uniform - I had no hat. It took quite a bit of explaining by my Aussie buddies, Brownie and Chris Coffin, to convince the M.P.s that I was a bloody Yank!

            We would often go for long walks through the hills and fields surrounding the hospital - occasionally we would find mushrooms, that same pink variety we had back home - we would bring them back to the hospital, where we were permitted to fry them in butter in the kitchen of our ward. Delicious!

            The V.A.D.s (Volunteer Auxiliary Detachment - I think) were most pleasant - they were the equivalent of our nurses aids. Most of them were local girls who had joined up to assist the war effort. One evening M/Sgt Donohue and I were permitted to go out for the evening to downtown Northam - our first time out. Donohue was an old timer, about 42, as short as I am tall - we both had casts on one our legs from the ankle to the hip. I guess we looked like a pair, hobbling into the pub at the down town hotel. By this time one might get the impression that I was quite a boozer; however, that was not the case at all - my infrequent imbibements were usually followed by hangovers which took me a while to forget. At any rate, Donohue and I got outside a couple of beers - my, that Australian beer was powerful! We ran into two of the VADs who worked on our ward at the hospital. They had had a couple of beers too, and, intent on some romance, steered Donohue and me out into a park behind the main street of town. It was awful dark out there in the park - stumbling around with one leg in a cast, feeling the effects of that beer certainly left me in no condition for romance! Especially after some biting ants got in under the cast on my leg and started to bite. I don't know about Donohue, but my VAD friend must have been disappointed.

            One Sunday two of the VADs, Mye Phillips and Mollie Stewart, invited Donohue and me to have dinner at Mye's parents home, a lovely country place on the outskirts of Northam. Mye was a sweet young lady, but definitely not my type - Donohue had a crush on her. Mollie Stewart was a tall, fun loving country girl - she had earned the nickname "Basher" when she had clobbered a sailor who had got out of line one night. We had a lovely dinner and spent a pleasant afternoon at Mye's home.

            And so it went - those six weeks spent recuperating at Northam were delightful: Forty years later, on the 23rd of February, 1983, I returned to Northam. After a one-and-a-half hour ride from Perth on the Prospector, a two-car train, I called a cab at the railroad station, and the pleasant lady driver took me to the Tattersall Hotel on Fitzgerald St., on the main street of town. The hotel was an old one, typical two story building, with a pub and dining room downstairs and rooms upstairs - I no doubt drank beer in the pub back in '42. The proprietors, a New Zealand couple who had been here only three years, were very nice - they were in a dither because they were preparing for their daughters wedding which was to be held in the hotel the following weekend. My room had the bare essentials, bed, a small fan for air-conditioning, with the toilet and bath down the hall.

            I took a walk around town toward evening to look it over - although there had been very little progress in the forty years I had been away, I couldn't recognize anything familiar.

            After breakfast the following morning I went out hiking around the outskirts of town, trying to find the site of the 118th Field Hospital where I had recuperated during the war. But I had no luck - I wasn't even sure what direction it was in. By then I realized I was using the wrong tactics. I went down to the shire (city hall) and asked for help - and I got it! When a young lady in the shire approached me and asked if she could be of any help I told her that she was much too young. Somewhat taken aback, she laughed when I explained that she was too young to know any of the people who were around when I had been here previously. She then referred me to a young official - I believe he was the mayor. He showed me a map where the hospital used to be, and even offered to take me there in his car. I had been looking in the wrong places - the site was on the other side of the Avon River, on the opposite side of town. Then he called his father, who had been here in the early days, and got me leads on Mye Phillips and Mollie Stewart. They had moved out of town; however Mollie Stewart's nephew Jeff had a pharmacy just up the street from the hotel. So I went there next.

            Young Jeff couldn't have been any nicer - he immediately got his aunt Mollie on the phone, and I had a nice chat with her. I learned that she had married right after the war, had had a good marriage, but was presently a widow. She lived in Busselton, a couple hundred miles south of Perth, but would be in Perth Saturday to Tuesday, and gave me a number to call. Her nephew Jeff even invited me to his home for dinner, which I declined.

            The following morning I got up at daybreak, to take a hike out to what was called the Holden campsite, where the 118th Field Hospital used to be. I crossed the Avon River on a foot-bridge, about 100 yards long - the Avon River, which ran parallel to the main street of town, is about the size of our Allegheny, although somewhat more serene. There were hundreds of ducks, some white swans, and various other species of waterfowl in and around the water. After crossing over to the other side I walked up Starling St. about a mile out to the end, and, sure enough, the surroundings looked familiar - it was the old hospital site: Of course there were no buildings standing there, just an open area. But the old streets that had divided the hospital compound were still there, and my imagination ran rampant. I could almost hear voices - the nurses, Sister O'Donnell, the orderlies, the VADs, the cobbers (fellow Aussie patients) I had known here. Yes, these are pleasant memories - the sound of a kookaburro ( a bird found only in Australia that sounds like a laughing jackass) brought me back to the present and reality. If anything, the return to Northam had made me realize how much water has flowed under the Avon River Bridge, and all the bridges I have crossed - I am a relic out of the past - to most people here WWII is ancient history. But life goes on - we cannot go backwards.

            That afternoon one of the Aussie troops staying at the hotel offered me a ride to Perth - although I had intended to stay in Northam a while longer I decided to go to Perth with him. The ride to Perth took only a little over an hour (at about 80 mph plus) I checked in to the Wentworth Hotel in downtown Perth.

            I spent the next couple days enjoying Perth - it is a beautiful, modern city! I had booked a flight to Exmouth, the American naval base on the northwest coast of Australia, where I was to catch a Space-A flight back to the U.S. The day before I was to leave, I called Mollie Stewart. She invited me out to her sister's home, where she was staying, so I called a cab, which took me out there. Mollie looked good; after 40-plus years I still would have recognized her. We had a pleasant chat with her brother-in-law Ron and her sister. Then Mollie and I drove out to Kings Park, over looking the city of Perth, in her car. The night was beautiful, with a full moon shining under the Southern Cross, a perfect night for romance. Mollie had even brought a bottle of wine along - we had a pleasant evening reminiscing the past; however, the memory of Dorothy was still too strong for romance.

            Mollie was leaving the following morning for her home down the coast - she lived near the beach, had a boat - she said the scenery was beautiful there. I considered canceling my flight to Exmouth and riding down to Busselton with her, but -- I wonder ..................

            Back to the past: All good things must come to an end eventually;   Sgt Donohue and I were discharged from the 118th Field Hospital in Northam, West Australia, given a lift down to Perth, where we were to catch the train to join our troops in Melbourne, Victoria, on the east coast of Australia. We had three or four hours before our train was to leave that evening - by train time Sgt Donohue was well-soused - I had a difficult time pouring him on the train.

            The trip from Perth to Melbourne was almost 3000 miles, and took three days. We traveled first-class, with Pullman accommodations; the train was quite modern for those days, with dining car and bar. The passengers were a mixture of military and civilians, mostly women, quite congenial and a wonderful time was had by all.

            06-19-42: On arrival in Melbourne I parted ways with my old buddy Donohue. I was assigned to the 22nd Air Transport Squadron at Essendon Airdrome in Melbourne. I was still having trouble with my knee; when I turned in on sick call I was sent to the 4th General Hospital (U.S.) in Melbourne. After an injection and X-ray of my knee, it was decided that an operation to remove bone chips and cartilage was required. This experience, incidentally, I enjoyed - going under the ether was fun, and I came out of it singing "My Wild Irish Rose” to the nurse, who, although not Irish, I thought was an angel. I spent over two and a half months, from the 19th of June to the 28th of August in that hospital recuperating from that operation. That was the problem with those military hospitals - once you were admitted you had a heck of a time getting out. There was just no place for a G.I. who was unable to perform his duties at less than 100%; therefore, in the hospital I stayed, hobbling about, under- going physio-therapy, going out to enjoy the city of Melbourne occasionally. What a way to fight a war!

            I finally was discharged from the 4th General Hospital on the 28th of August and returned to the 22nd Transport Squadron at Essendon. My leg still wasn't quite right, but the Squadron was badly in need of radio operators - I was supposed to be on' two months light duty, but went right back on flying status.

Mascot Field, Sidney Australia-

            08-28-42: The 22nd Air Transport and it’s sister Squadron, the 21st stationed at Mascot Field at Sydney, were composed mostly of a conglomeration of aircraft which had filtered down from the Philippines and East Indies campaigns in the north, Dutch L-14 Lockheed Lodestars (the Instrument markings were in Dutch) a couple of Douglas C-39's, a converted B-17E and a B-17C - we even had an old B-18 that had somehow found its’ way down to Melbourne. At that time Melbourne was the hub of wartime activity - General MacArthur had set up his headquarters there - from there he was to begin the long road back, to fulfill his promise "I shall return!"

            Our pilots were a combination of ex-P-40 jocks, bomber pilots, and S/Sgt pilots. The S/Sgt pilots had graduated in the bottom third of their flying class - they were not awarded their commissions - as a result of this they seemed to try to out-fly their commissioned brother-pilots, which often made for some quite interesting flying.

            In those early days of '42 the Japanese were still driving southward, occasionally bombing mainland Australian bases at Darwin, Broome, and Townsville and Cairns on the east coast. We were in support of our forward bases in the northern areas of Australia and New Guinea, flying in ammunition, aircraft engines, troops - whatever was required to stop the Japanese drive. One day I would be in a Lockheed Lodestar, the next trip in a Douglas C-39, the next in our B-17-C, etc. A typical trip, as taken from my diary: (Took off before daylight from Adelaide. Landed and fueled up at Oodnadata, Alice Springs, Daly Waters. Arrived at Batchelor Field, Darwin about five this evening (10:00 flying hours) What a hole - hot and dusty! Had mess at the R.A.A.F. barracks, then went back and slept in the plane. Took off for Groote Island before daybreak - brought out a load of ammo. Picked up three engines at Batchelor and took off this afternoon for Melbourne. Stayed over night at Alice Springs (10:00 flying hours).

Townsville, Australia-

            On the 26th of September, '42, our squadron departed Melbourne aboard a troop train for Townsville, Queensland. This was not the plush first class passenger train such as the one I had crossed Australia in - this was a genuine troop train, no doubt a holdover from WW-I. We spent eight days aboard that train, excluding a night spent at an army camp in Brisbane, wending our way up the eastern coast of Australia, past Sydney, Newcastle, Bundaberg, Brisbane, Rockhampton, eating C-rations, until we finally reached our next base of operations at the R.A.A.F. field at Townsville.

            Most of our flying from Townsville were up over the Coral Sea to Port Moresby and back, with occasional stops at Horn Island, Iron Range, Cooktown, and Cairns. The Japanese were driving through the pass in the Owen Stanley Mountains of Papua, and at one time were only thirty-five miles from our bases at Port Moresby. All of our available transport aircraft were flying out of Ward Strip at Moresby on drooping missions, dropping supplies to the Aussie troops battling the Japs in the jungle-covered approach to Port Moresby. This was quite hazardous flying - we lost two of our C-47's on subsequent flights on dropping missions. we would fly along the mountain ridges, valleys and peaks, mostly cloud-covered, along the Kokoda trail - most of our flying had to be done in the morning, because the clouds would build up in the afternoon, preventing any further flying.

            We would stack a pile of supplies in the rear door of our plane, and as we passed over the drop-zone, at a signal from the pilot we would kick the pile of supplies out of the open door. The supplies, ammo and food, were heavily bundled in woolen blankets, without benefit of parachutes - I had often wondered what percentage of them were actually recovered by our Aussie troops, who needed them desperately, and how much of them were recovered by the other side.

            Excerpt from my diary: (Oct. 20 1942 Made three flights this morning dropping supplies to the troops up at Myola in the Owen Stanleys. Some Job - hardest I've worked in a long time! The second trip we made we took two Aussies along to help us dump the supplies. They both got air sick - I looked back and saw one vomiting into his big Aussie trooper's hat. His comment, "By Gee, Yank, I shit in me bloody jeans too!" I don't think that Aussie ever wanted to set foot in an airplane again.)

            Excerpt from my diary: (Oct. 22 1942 Made a trip to Myola early this morning, and another to Wanagela, just a hole in the jungle. Had quite a time late this afternoon. We were on a truck just leaving Seven-Mile Strip where we went for chow, when the first thing we knew bombs began hitting the field. We hit the dirt in a hurry. After the Japs were gone we started for Ward Strip again, but had gone only a short way when they came again. This time they hit too close for comfort - scattered dirt on some of us. One hit within 50 feet of our plane and never hurt it. It's a good thing the bombs weren't "daisy-cutters", or I mightn't be writing this.)

            In January of 1943, Royce L. Sheppard, a fellow radio operator and I, along with two pilots and crew chiefs, flew down to Melbourne for a well-earned week's leave - I won't dwell on it, except that since we were unable to get hotel accommodations we stayed at, the home of civilian friends of Shep's who treated us royally, and - a wonderful time was had by all!

Fig 4   Flying the hump, was the Stanley Owens mountain range between Popondetta and Port Morseby. This is where the Japanese were finally stopped and the turn about began.

Port Morseby, New Guinea

            Upon returning to Townsville we found that our squadron had moved up to Port Moresby (ref Fig 4) lock, stock and barrel; this was to be our new base of operations. So, we flew on up to Ward Strip, Port Moresby and rejoined our troops, who had settled down in tents on a hill side adjoining Ward Strip and Seven-Mile Strip, two of our most active airbases in New Guinea. Shep and I pitched our tent on this hillside and dug ourselves a slit-trench; we were later joined by fellow radio operators Joe McIlvain, Norm Shore and Nick Lanzalaca - this was to be our home until I left the squadron in September of 1943.

            We now had two American Army divisions, the 32nd and 41st, involved with the Aussies against the Japanese in the Bune-Gona campaign. To those who thought the Viet-Nam campaign was rough, they should have had a taste of what our troops had to contend with in the mosquito, leech, and snake infested swamp-covered Jungle leading to the Japanese airstrip at Buna, on the east coast of Papua, New Guinea, where our troops had pushed the Japs back to.

            We would fly our troops over the hump, less that an hour's flight from Moresby, landing on strips which the day before might have been fields of giant Kunai grass in open areas of the jungle. Our side would have the Fuzzy-wuzzies, the black natives, who were only too willing to hack out strips where our planes could land to unload our precious cargoes. When I saw some of those troops come out of that jungle after having been in contact with the Japs, I surely appreciated being in the Army Air Corps!

            By January of 1943 our squadron had received new C-47A aircraft and, along with the old 21st squadron, plus the 6th and 33rd squadrons who had arrived from the states, had been designated the 374th Troop Carrier Group. Although our planes had no pretty girls painted on their sides like some of our bomber and fighter aircraft, each of them had a name painted on them. I was assigned to the Duchess - she was my baby and I became quite attached to her. Our Pilots were not assigned to any particular aircraft; however the crew chiefs and radio operators were. Since the radio operator did not have much to do on these short flights over the hump, especially since we maintained radio silence on these missions, we were assigned the additional duty of cleaning out and dusting the inside of the aircraft after the day's missions. The temperature inside the C-47s sitting out in the hot, tropical New Guinea sun was quite drastic! I shall never forget how good a particular can of tomato juice tasted one day - we had been flying supplies over the hump to our troops, and we copped a couple cans of tomato Juice out of the supplies - the high altitude flight had chilled the juice - after cleaning out the inside of that aircraft that juice was just sumptuous!

            Excerpt from my diary: (Feb. 21st, 1943 - Two trips over the hump today - Dobodura and Poppendetta (3:00 hrs flying time) Tojo came over a couple of times tonight. Dropped a few bombs but miles away - too cloudy.)

            (Feb. 22nd, 1943 -- got in a good day' s work today - four trips over the hump, then spent the rest of the day cleaning the plane for inspection. We got commended for having the best plane on the line. 5:00 hrs flying time

            On the lst of March, 1943 our squadron was cited for excellent work in support of our troops in the Buna-Gona campaign. On the 15th of April I had to participate in an awards ceremony down on the flight line, where a bunch of us were decorated; I received the Silver Star for "gallantry in action over Belikpapen, Borneo, on Feb 3, 1942". It was pinned on me by General George C. Kenney. I guess because of that decoration I was considered to be quite a hot-shot - I was promoted to buck sergeant on the lst of March, I was promoted to S/Sgt two months later, and to T/Sgt four months after that!

            Perhaps the best way for me to relate some of my experiences during this period of my life would be to take excerpts from my diary:

            Mar. 11, 1943 - We lost a couple of good boys today. Mokano crashed while on a dropping mission above Wau, and everyone in the plane was killed. Sgt-Pilot Crowley, our section chief, Ben Palma and seven other fellows. It was really bad luck on Palma. His orders to go home Just came in today. George August had been flying on the plane at the time, but he had to get his picture taken today, so Palma took his place. I guess he's got something to thank God for.

            Mar. 13, 1943 - Three trips to Dobodura today. They had a bad air raid there yesterday. Fifteen men killed and about thirty wounded.

            Mar. 14, 1943 - We made a trip to Bena-Bena, way up in the heart of New Guinea. It was a beautiful place, and we sure had a lot of fun! The native chief came up and saluted us and shook hands. We got a great kick out, of them. And the native girls in grass skirts - not bad at all: They’re turning white to me. I got a few good souvenirs.

            April 9, 1943 - Three trips to Dobodura today. On the last trip we were getting ready to take off from Dobodura. I was back by the rear door helping the crew-chief get in, when the pilot started the engine. The wind caught the open door and slammed it, and I happened to have my fingers in the way. Result - a couple of broken fingers! The field doctor at Dobodura cut off my class-ring, gave me an anesthetic and set my fingers. Then when I got back I was sent to the hospital at Moresby, where they gave me another anesthetic and reset it. I came out of it feeling pretty good, singing "I'll take You Home Again, Kathleen”. So now I'm in the hospital for a few days.

            Apr. 12, 1943 - Got out of the hospital this morning. I just got back to camp when we had an air-raid alert. Forty-five Jap Betty bombers, in three perfect Vees, and about sixty Zero escorts came over and bombed the place. We saw some spectacular dog fights right over our heads! They damaged three of our planes slightly, including my Duchess, so I won't be flying for a few more days.

            This was the first real air-raid for most of the boys. I think it will do them good. There's a lot of air-raid trench digging going on after the raid.

            April 13, 1943 - Both the Duchess and I are out of action for a few days for repairs.

            May 8th, 1943 - Two trips today - one to Bulolo, and one dropping mission above Wau. We made three passes at the target and quit because of clouds. The 6th Sqdn. lost a plane up there today.

            May 12th, 1943 - The 6th and 21st Squadrons each lost a plane today. Both crashed and burned in the pass.

            May 23th, 1943 - Guy Lowder came up from Sydney today, and brought six quarts of whiskey with him. So this evening we had quite a party. I over-estimated my capacity and got drunker than I've ever been in my life. We really had one rip-roaring party: A couple of the boys sat on my guitar and smashed it - I thought that was the funniest thing - at the time: That's as far as I remember, but I got the details later on. Jimmy Feramisco and I decided we needed a shower, so we went out and took one, with our clothes on. The others came out and found us scrubbing each others backs with scrub brushes. We had two air-raids tonight, but I just vaguely remember someone pouring me into a slit-trench.

            May 24th, 1943 - Oh, what a head and stomach! Supposed to fly but got Profitt to take my place.

            June lst, 1943 - Two dropping missions to Gaudacazal, above Wau. The Japs got after us the second trip. Our escort tangled with them and we buzzed the trees all the way back. Some Fun! (6:00 hrs)

            July lst, 1943 - Flew in a new plane today. We went to Dobodura and were to go on a dropping mission from there, but bad weather kept us grounded. Slept in the plane tonight.

            July 2nd, 1943 - We tried to get through to drop supplies this morning but couldn't get through. So we loafed around for most of the day. Late in the afternoon, Feramisco, Clack, and I heard that our planes were taking off. We hurried to the field, but Clack's and my plane had already left. So we all jumped on Feramisco's plane. When we were almost over our target I spotted a couple of planes close to the ground over Nassau Bay. I thought they looked strange but said nothing, since we had our escort of fighter aircraft and they were supposed to watch out for enemy aircraft. We went up and dropped our load, and just as we got on course to start back I saw our escort of P-38s and P-40s dive on some planes. They got four Zeros and nine bombers without loss. Some Fun!

            July 4th, 1943 - Took time off to do my laundry. Lowder came back from furlough with some good stuff, and Simons brought back a roast turkey, so we really celebrated the Fourth of July tonight.

            July 5th, 1943 - Our gang of the radio section decided to go out to the falls for a picnic this afternoon. So we raided the kitchen for some eats, got a truck from the motor pool, and drove out to the falls. We really had a great time out there, and cooked us a grand supper.

            July 10th, 1943 - Flew to Hood Point this afternoon. We almost washed out landing; later I kinda wished we had. Nice place - and the prettiest native girls I've seen up here. Not a bad place to get stranded!

            July 11th, 1943 - We lost a darn good buddy today. "Junior" crashed on the Dobodura run - "Cobber" Coury, "Wheels-up" Murray, Lt. Dingman and another new pilot all killed. We sure hated to lose Coury. I don't think there was a man in this outfit that didn't like him.

            July 14th, 1943 - I was to have been pall-bearer for Coury today, but there was a change in plans and they were buried on the other side of the Range.

            Aug.  13th, 1943 - Had a close one today. We just took off for Bena-Bena this morning when we broke a hydraulic line and lost all of our fluid. We managed to get our wheels down and landed without flaps or brakes. Ground looped at the end of the runway to stop it. Friday the 13th!

            Aug. 15th, 1943 - A flock of Zeros jumped the 21st Sqdn. at Tsili-Tsili today and got two of their planes. We were lucky - we were a few minutes behind them and got the warning in time.

            Aug.16th, 1943 - The Zero’s tried to jump our planes again at Tsili-Tsili, but our fighters knocked hell out of them.

            And so it went. Most of our missions were routine; take-off, climb up over the hump, land at some postage-stamp of an airstrip carved out of the Jungle, a quick turn-around, and scramble for home base. However, there was always that element of danger, all sorts of possibilities, which kept us on our toes.

            I must say I have seen some of the most spectacular sights - sunsets, sunrises, mountains, jungles, seashores - ever seen by man, while flying in New Guinea. Being as tall as I was, in my position as radio operator I always stood on a stool with my head in the navigator's dome in the forward top of the aircraft. In that way I had almost an unobstructed view of the passing country-side; both forward and aft - I could see even better than the pilots. I served as the lookout for bogies (enemy aircraft). And the scenery I saw was indescribable - I shall not attempt to do so.

Sent Home

            On the 22nd of August, 1943, after we had returned from a mission to Tsili-Tsili, our personnel people came down to our Plane and pulled me off any further flying - I was being sent home!

            My orders stated that I was being returned to the states because of combat fatigue. Even though I was excited about going home, I was not quite ready to return.. I hated to leave my buddies, we had the Japanese on the run now, I loved to fly and I took great interest in the progress of the war, not only in the Far East, but also in Europe - Perhaps I even had a little guilt feeling, because I was another "War Lover”. By this time I had over 200 combat missions behind me; however, I did not consider myself to be combat-fatigued. But perhaps our flight surgeon knew something I didn't.

            At any rate, within hours I was on my way to Brisbane, Australia; the following day I was aboard the transport ship U.S. Willard T. Holbrook, and after a seventeen-day, zig zag, unescorted course at 22 knots, passed under the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco, California, thus completing an interrupted trip around the world.